“Do it and I’ll sue you!” Hank said, dangling there.
Dad paused. Looked around. Only about nine hundred witnesses, and Hank had done nothing illegal. Dad’s eyes narrowed as he considered.
“Sue me, motherfucker!” I shouted as I delivered the haymaker Dad planned. I threw it from my shoes, with everything I had, and it caught Hank flush between the eyes. I felt the cartilage in his nose give way, and blood spurted out. My wig flew off from the jolt, and a searing pain shot from my hand through to my shoulder.
All hell broke loose as the oilmen came at Dad. Dad ducked a punch and nailed Sam in the face, then took a shot from a younger guy. Silvio, Uncle Dan, Simon, and even Hunter jumped into the fray. It was a classic saloon fight, right out of an old western. Men joined in on both sides, and chairs and tables flew. Some ladies ran for the exits while others pulled out phones to capture it on video. I clutched my bruised hand and watched.
The ballroom was near-empty. Those who remained were bruised and bloody with torn costumes and broken masks—friends and family. Ann had disappeared. Hank was long gone, probably to a hospital to have his nose reset. I soaked my hand in a wine bucket full of ice water. Dad held a towel full of ice against his cheek.
“I’m so sorry, Mom,” I said. “I tried to wait.”
“It’s okay, honey,” she said. She looked around, bereft.
“Lucy, you wanna dance?” Dad asked Mom.
“Angus, please.”
“What the hell? The band’s paid for. And I haven’t danced with my wife yet.”
“I’ll dance with you,” I said, and removed my hand, dried it with a napkin. “But let’s change the mood.”
I went over to the musicians, who had been waiting uncomfortably for some sign from us.
“Hey, you guys feel like cranking it up?” I asked. The band leader perked up.
“Sure.”
“Do it. Something rowdy.”
I went to the bar.
“You guys got any Tecate back there?”
The bartender popped a longneck and handed it to me. I squeezed a lime in it, took a good swallow. Then another.
“Ice a few more, would you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I grabbed two more and a handful of limes, and headed back to the table as the band—a chamber orchestra—scratched out the first notes of “Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother.” Perfect. I offered Dad my good hand and we went out onto the dance floor.
Simon and Julia joined us. And then, reluctantly, so did Mom, dancing with Hunter. For the next couple of hours we left the disaster behind. We drank beer and ate cold pig and laughed and danced and hugged and cried, and then laughed some more. Those who stayed still swear it turned out to be the party of the season, if not the decade.
Twenty-Six
In Which Megan Single-Handedly Takes on Big Oil
UNFORTUNATELY, TOMORROW WAS ANOTHER DAY, OR more accurately the next afternoon was another day, because I didn’t get out of bed until two. After all the hoopla, an ER doctor at Parkland set my hand in a cast at 4 a.m. I had a boxer’s fracture—a transverse fracture of the fifth metacarpal.
“Third one I’ve done tonight,” he said to me. “But the first in a ball gown.”
I found Mom and Dad and Julia hungover at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and facing the cold reality of our situation. XT Energy now owned the ranch, and planned to frack it. We were rich but had given up millions of dollars in the process. Hank Waterhouse had screwed us over—me literally—and done his company proud. He’s probably not in the crappy junior office anymore, I thought, not cheering myself up.
I poured some coffee and sat.
“I can’t believe I brought this on us.”
“Megan,” Dad said, “this ranch, and any deal for it, is my responsibility. Hank fooled all of us, me included.”
“If I hadn’t pushed so hard,” Mom said. “I wanted it so bad—but not this.” Dad reached for her hand. “Never like this.”
“I know,” Dad said.
The doorbell rang. Julia went to the door, and then came back to the kitchen, wide-eyed.
“Uh, Megan? Andrew Gage is here to see you.”
“Here?”
“In the front hall.”
Mom, Dad, and Julia all looked at me.
“I don’t know why he’s here.” I left them.
I had said nothing about my run-in with Andrew at the Plaza, not even to Julia. What would I have said? Hey, did I mention that Andrew Gage has secretly had the hots for me since the beginning of the deb season and tried to tell me that Hank was a bad guy but I ignored him?
“Andrew.”
“Sorry to just drop in, but I wanted to speak to you—in person.”
“Sure. You want to sit down?” I motioned toward the living room.
“Um, how about a walk?” he asked.
“Any photographers out there?” I asked teasingly.
He laughed, shook his head.
“I didn’t call them.”
“Me neither,” I said.
We went down the front steps. Walked across the driveway toward the barn, then started out across a pasture, not headed anywhere really, just farther away from the house. It was a typical December afternoon, brisk but sunny, and we steadily increased our pace, tramping out well beyond the barns. Neither of us spoke, but it was a comfortable silence.
“That was some punch,” he said, finally. I stopped.
“You were there?” He nodded. “The horse mask—that was you.” He nodded again.
“Georgie called me after she got off the phone with you. When she said you thought Hank had done something bad to you, I . . . I had to come.” His words made my stomach go flip-flop.
“You came to protect me?” I asked.
“Megan McKnight, you don’t need anyone to protect you. But I was very . . . concerned.”
For months I had slapped this guy down, but he still had my back. It was thrilling.
“Andrew—I’m so sorry. I didn’t listen to you. You tried to warn me about Hank, and I ignored you. And all the things I said about you in New York? I was wrong.”
He stared at me for a moment and then laughed, hard. Not what I had expected.
“What’s so funny?”
“Not funny,” he said. “Just . . . exasperating.”
“What do you mean?”
“I came out here to apologize to you, and you beat me to it.”
“Apologize—why?”
“For this whole situation. It’s my fault, my family’s fault.” I didn’t understand. “We knew who Hank was, the kind of person he is—and we kept silent. Worse, we rewarded him, because we were afraid—of bad publicity, a scandal, some slight to our name. We were too . . . proud. We should have exposed him. Maybe if my dad had still been alive, we would have handled it better—but we didn’t. We kicked the can down the road and it landed on you and your family. I’m so sorry.”
The quality and sincerity of his apology surprised me.
“Wow. You’re forgiven. Right here, right now.”
“Thank you,” he said.
We turned back toward the house. This guy was absolutely not who I thought he was. He was warm and sincere and thoughtful. I . . . liked him.
“I’m jealous, you know.” We stood in the driveway. “I’ve wanted to hit Hank for a long time.”
“What?” I asked, laughing. “You mean you didn’t get any licks in after I softened him up for you?”
“No! I tried but I got tied up with some other asshole. But I gotta tell you, that’s the most fun I’ve had since I was a kid. I never get to do that kind of stuff, because it gets reported.”
“You just need to hang with my family more. My great-great-aunt fought in the Mexican Revolution!”
“You clearly get
it from somewhere.” He looked out over the grasslands. “It’s so beautiful. It’s a shame what they’re planning.”
I waved as he drove off and thought, I really don’t know him at all.
I didn’t go back inside after Andrew left. Instead I walked for a while, just around the Aberdeen, until I arrived at a metal equipment shed. Years ago, after Mom complained long enough and loud enough about me peppering the garage door with a soccer ball, Dad had painted a goal on the side of the shed for me to practice on. It was well away from the house and he figured no matter how hard I practiced, it wouldn’t do any harm.
I found an old ball and started thumping it off the side of the shed. The goal lines were faded, but still there. This was my way of thinking. And the more I thought, the angrier I got. We can’t just give up the ranch and let it be destroyed! After another half hour of kicking that ball against the shed, I had an idea.
What if we could somehow get the state of Texas to designate the Aberdeen as a historical landmark? The more important question was, would that prevent XT from drilling? I didn’t know the answer, but I knew someone who did. And I realized even though he’d just left the ranch, I really wanted to hear his voice again.
“It depends,” Andrew said. I reached him before he arrived back in Dallas, and we agreed to meet at the Starbucks in Highland Park Village. He understood immediately what I was getting at. I was using a play from his playbook. He thought for a bit longer. “It’s always murky. The stipulations likely won’t prevent drilling outright, but the language in these things is usually ambiguous enough that we could threaten them with a lawsuit. That might be enough for them to reconsider.”
“What should I do?”
“You need to ask your family if they’re up for it,” he said. “It’s risky, and expensive, and there’s no guarantee you’ll win. You might use up all your resources and still lose. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Look, this is in your wheelhouse and . . . I need some . . . help.”
He paused. “From me?” he asked.
“Yes.” I sighed. “From you. Would you please help me explain it to them?”
“Nothing would make me happier.”
So for the second time that day Andrew Gage drove to the Aberdeen and we sat at the kitchen table and explained the plan to Mom and Dad.
“So first you get the landmark designation,” Andrew said, recapping. “Then tell XT Energy you have it and—this is the important part—you tell them you’ll return the money if they’ll rip up the contract. And if they won’t, you’ll sue.”
“Why do it that way?” Dad asked.
“If you go in guns blazing, they’re more likely just to start shooting back. Give them a reasonable out.”
Dad nodded and Andrew told them plainly this was a calculated gamble, but we had to be prepared to return to the financial Armageddon we’d just escaped—heavy debt, large bills, even larger now, and a dim future. But we’d have the Aberdeen back.
Andrew and I waited while Mom and Dad thought through all this. It had caught them by surprise, for sure. Dad, torn, looked over at Mom, gauging her appetite for a fight.
“You know what I say?” Mom sounded surprisingly chipper. We all turned to her and waited for her to continue. “I say McKnights have faced longer odds than these, and if we stick together we’ll come through this too.”
“But Lucy,” Dad said, “what about the bills, the debt?”
“What about ’em?”
“Honey, you’ve been counting on this sale to get us out. For our future.”
“Yeah, but I know something that I didn’t know before. You care more about us than this land. So if you want to fight, I’ll stand by you to the end. Besides, there’s plenty of beef in the freezer—it’ll be a long time before we starve.”
“God, I love you, woman,” he said, and they kissed, hard, and he pulled her closer, hugged her to his chest.
In that moment I understood the depth of their love, and I felt bad for all the times I’d judged my mother harshly. In our darkest moment she was standing taller than any of us.
“Girls?” Dad looked to me and Julia.
“I’m in,” I said.
“Me too,” Julia added.
“It won’t be easy,” Dad warned.
“Nothing worth it ever is,” Mom answered.
XT Energy occupied the top three floors of a glass and steel building just off Central Expressway near Northwest Highway—the same building Hank “worked” in. From the conference room you could see Northpark Mall, and in the distance downtown Dallas. I had driven by it many times, but never been in it until that afternoon.
For the past hour Uncle Dan had laid out our position to a silent and stoic Sam Lanham, four random suits, and a petulant Hank Waterhouse. Hank still had plaster across his nose, and two black eyes. Sam and his boys had skinned cheeks and cracked lips, as did Uncle Dan and Dad. I spent the meeting staring at Hank, who never met my eyes.
We had the historic site designation. Mom called her old flame Hardy, who pushed it through before the Christmas recess. It prohibited “material changes,” and we were prepared to file a motion the moment anything larger than a pickup passed the gates. But, if they wanted to tear up the contract, we’d return the money.
“We’ll be in touch,” Sam said, and stood up. Uncle Dan began to gather papers, and Dad stood up, pushed his chair back. I sat at the gleaming conference table, stunned. That’s it?
“Well?” I asked, once inside the elevator. Uncle Dan looked sanguine.
“Hard to say. The language is pretty clear, but they know as well as we do that lawsuits are never slam dunks.”
We arrived in the parking garage.
“How long will they take to decide?” I asked.
Uncle Dan shrugged. “They’re gonna think this through hard. They’ll look for wiggle room, consult with their attorneys, try to figure out if we’re really serious. There’s the Christmas break. Ten days? A month is more likely.”
“Ugh. And we just have to wait?”
“Afraid so,” he answered.
With our entire life in limbo, the weeks after our meeting at XT Energy were excruciating. Even Christmas didn’t offer a distraction. Julia and I pleaded with Mom and Dad to forego gifts. We needed nothing, had already bought too much, and we could be pushed back into massive debt anytime the phone rang.
Relieved, my parents agreed, and we settled on a quiet Christmas at the ranch. We’d make a big breakfast and go for an afternoon ride, like we did when we were kids. We threw Mom one bone and let her buy us matching Christmas PJs, which was a family tradition. We opened them Christmas Eve. Mom went extra silly—red flannel footy pajamas with dancing snowmen and penguins. We put them on and had hot cocoa with mini marshmallows downstairs and then went up to bed early. Julia and I always slept in the same bed on Christmas Eve. When we were girls we stayed up too late giggling and talking, waiting and waiting for the hooves to clatter on the roof. Finally Dad would come up and tell us to go to sleep or Santa wouldn’t come at all. That night we lay under her quilt face-to-face, inches apart, enjoying the familiar comfort, the shared memories of all those Christmases at the ranch.
“I’m so proud of you,” Julia whispered. “You are so brave.”
“I don’t feel brave. I’ve been terrified the whole time.”
“Being brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared. It’s being scared and doing it anyway.”
“I can’t believe you won’t be there next week with me,” I said. “You should be. You should do it next year.”
“Hey, if everything goes the way we hope it does, we won’t be able to afford it next year.”
“That’s true.”
“But I don’t think I’d do it anyway,” Julia said.
“Why? I thought you loved it.”
“I did. But I think I got wha
t I needed—even if I don’t do the walk across the stage.”
“I love you so much, Julia.” I reached over and put my hand on hers, and squeezed.
“I love you too, Megan.” She squeezed my hand back.
I held on to her hand, and in a few minutes her breathing deepened and she slept. Long before any reindeer landed, I fell asleep too.
We padded downstairs the next morning and in lieu of gifts, Mom had put out a spread—huevos rancheros, chila quiles, bacon, biscuits, gravy, and a gallon of dark coffee. We stuffed ourselves with comfort food, then lolled on the couch.
“I did get you girls one small thing,” Dad said.
“Dad! You promised—no gifts!” Julia said.
“They didn’t cost nothing but time,” he said. Okay, now we were intrigued. He handed us each a flat box, about a foot square. Weighty.
“That’s a pretty heavy sweater,” I joked.
Julia and I tore open the boxes, and inside each found a small sculpture he’d made from two large horseshoes welded into an M, with a smaller one welded perpendicular. Together they formed the letters Mc. Our first names were engraved in the upper-left crescent.
“You made these?” Julia asked.
He nodded. “I got to thinking after that sculpture show. Now I gotta admit they aren’t art, but—”
“They’re awesome,” I said. We both hugged him. I thought about all the crap I’d wanted all those years, all the crap I’d received. This piece of scrap iron would be the one Christmas gift I would keep forever and pass down to my kids.
Later, Julia helped me practice the Texas Dip in the living room. When my knee hit the ground I always bumped noticeably, and even with a chair I couldn’t get all the way down to the floor. Somehow my back leg just wouldn’t get out of the way. I feared I had done too many squats, had run too much. My thigh muscles were just too big for such a graceful move.
“Again,” Julia said. I bent forward, one hand on the chair. While I scooched and prodded my body down, the doorbell rang and a moment later Zach Battle appeared in the doorway, with Mom behind him.
The Season Page 24
